Slam
by smarty0007
Summary: Helga is a slam poet. Arnold is a musician. What happens when the two collide?
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing. This is a sort of "extension" for the Helga-as-a-slam-poet idea in one of the "Pink" drabbles. All you crazy cats and chicks out there with your awesome and humbling feedback, this is for you! Thanks for reading! :)

Arnold lay on his bed and thought about the school week, puzzling over the odd feeling welling up inside him.

The music. It wouldn't stop.

He remembered once in fourth grade he tried to explain to Gerald what happened whenever he saw the then-mysterious Ruth P. McDougal—this unearthly music swelled into a crescendo and blocked all cognizant thought from his mind.

He was worried. It was happening again, but this time the circumstances were totally unexpected. Sometimes it was a solitary violin or a saxophone. Other times it was the heavy rise and fall of timpani or the romantic droning of an accordion. Sometimes he sat idly at his keyboard and before he knew it, his fingers evoked this haunting melody all by themselves.

Deep down, he knew what it meant, and usually it wasn't a good thing. Whenever he heard the music, it was a sign that he was slipping into a trance over some girl, and if he told Gerald about it, it probably wouldn't go over too well. Gerald had a lot of practice snapping his buddy out of these trances and always told him to block it out because, "It's not worth it man, she's shallow. Everybody knows that." Or, "She doesn't like you—quit kidding yourself!" Or even, "She's a big time Hollywood actress, Arnold. Please, for dignity's sake, don't go embarrassing yourself mailing that sappy love poem." Gerald had stealthily pulled the letter from his friend's hands before it disappeared into the mailbox. Arnold remembered the next day's mortified relief and his silent thanks to a higher power that Gerald was a good friend.

But this time was different. He hadn't told Gerald yet because there was something… private about this particular theme that he didn't know how to put into words, and it scared him. This melody felt much older than the others. It threaded delicately into the past, winding into echoes of variations he already thought he knew. It haunted his dreams. It haunted his waking life. It was somewhat sad in its beauty, and so he walked around in a semi-painful dream, feeling a helpless longing for something he couldn't quite place.

At first, it didn't seem much different from the usual times he saw her walking alone in the city. Those days the music wasn't necessarily absent—it was just quieter, more subdued, lurking underneath the surface. Occasionally it blared sharply into focus when he crashed into her around a blind corner, but just as sharply it faded into the background as she stalked irritably away.

As the summer progressed, now and then he spotted her on the little footbridge or near the bench next to the fountain—somewhere close to water. Water—the ocean, the stream under the bridge, the harbor—he'd met her (and spoke with her) near them all. The music was sustained by those moments, and he would feel its presence long after she disappeared.

And then, at the edge of when the leaves just started to turn, rarest but richest of all, there were the days with rain. Somehow the rain drumming down on the sidewalk pavement gave even more meaning to the flowing sounds in his head. The puddles reflected the lining of sadness in the music. That singular time when he stood still under the gray sky and watched her skim stones across the water—something about the emerging symphony changed. It had been released and was free to fill up the space around him at full volume. She was aiming at Elk Island. He struck up a contest with her for old times' sake, and (a little covertly) for the chance to see what was bothering her. He marveled at her life behind closed doors—it gave him valuable perspective he didn't know he'd needed until after he'd already walked home in the dusk, still not fully dried from standing so long, exposed, on the pier.

He knew why he hadn't told Gerald, but he refused to vocalize it just yet. Yes, it haunted him. No, he couldn't sleep because of it. One day he would probably have to transcribe a fully realized version of it in order to vacate his mind. But until then this new nebulous guilty feeling would remain: he wanted to hold on to it.

He wanted to keep it close because he thought that once Gerald found out, the bubble would burst and it would all be over. He wanted to hide it because he knew that it was irrational, laughable. Maybe his hormones were going crazy and therefore he was too. Or maybe he knew the truth… that this time it was real.

So he endured it. On Tuesday, he watched her casually slam her locker in the dusty hallway and admired the warm smile she saved for her best friend as they shuffled to class. The music ebbed with her steps. On Wednesday, he sat behind her in math class and forgot to take notes. The music washed through his mind and narrowed his vision to the fine wisps of hair escaping from her elastic scrunchie. On Thursday, he thought in vain about how to write her a note or a poem or anything that would hint to her how he felt. Signing it "anonymous" wouldn't cut it this time—but he never managed to go through with it anyway. The music taunted him as he glanced across the room, and he flinched when she looked up and stage-whispered a hostile, "What?!" This afternoon he didn't bother trying to suppress it as he watched her in her element, slinging dodgeballs left and right at their classmates. Tomorrow night was their friends' weekly gathering at the Coco Hut, sharing pizza and laughing at or applauding each other's acts heartily—she'd be there in all her glory as usual.

Arnold blinked and sat up, dazed from the light streaming down from the pattern of windows above him, his eyes adjusting to his relatively dark room. Maybe this would be a Grandpa-advice moment instead of a Gerald one. It couldn't hurt. His Grandpa had been making fun of him for ages for what he already suspected to be true. Perhaps it was time to get it out in the open.


	2. Chapter 2

"Grandpa?" Arnold walked into the kitchen to see him filling out the Sunday crossword. He stood still, jaw clenched, and grimly prepared for his fate.

"Why the long face, Arnold? Got another one of your tricky teenage dilemmas?" Phil had a shifty look about him, almost like he knew what Arnold was going to say.

"Grandpa, do you ever… hear music in your head when you look at Grandma?"

Phil blinked at the directness of this question. "Well, sure... Sometimes I think about our first date—you already know that story—that's why we like Dino so much!"

"I know, but… it's not stuck in your head all the time is it? Dino's songs?"

"Of course not!" Phil scoffed, albeit good-naturedly. "Dino's a living legend, mind you, but there's only so many times you can play your favorite song before you have to listen to something else." Phil sipped his coffee and crossed off a word. "Otherwise, it'll drive you loony!"

"Oh… okay." Arnold sighed. His shoulders slumped in defeat. So he was crazy.

"What's eating you, Shortman?"

"Don't make fun of me, okay?" This was spoken in accordance with ritual; Arnold didn't really have a hope for it to be fruitful.

"Now, why on earth would I make fun of my favorite grandson?" Phil cracked a smile and raised an eyebrow.

"Grandpa…"

"Lay it on me."

"Fine. I've been hearing this music every time I see a certain… girl in my class."

"Oh, really? And what kind of music is this?"

"Um… kind of sad, beautiful, slow." He frowned, "It's been bothering me for a while now."

Phil stood and walked his empty plate to the sink so that his face was hidden to Arnold. "Any chance this has to do with your little blond friend?"

Arnold couldn't tell if his Grandpa was laughing or flinching in horror, but he plowed on. "Well… yeah, it's Helga. I used to only hear it when I saw her. Mostly outside of school. When our friends weren't…" he trailed off, hesitant.

"Go on."

"I mean, I've heard other music before… but _this_ music has been _hers_ for as long as I can remember. And now…"

"Ye-es?" Phil scrubbed something in the sink and then toweled it dry.

"It's changed."

"Hm." His Grandpa paused. "In a good way or bad way?" he asked evenly, turning to lean back against the sink with his arms crossed.

"I—I don't know for sure. It's never been bad. Just _hers_. But the problem now is that it won't stop. I can't get it out of my head. It's driving me crazy—but in a way, I k-kind of—" Arnold turned red and suddenly collapsed into a chair. Phil started chuckling quietly to himself, but Arnold couldn't continue. He let his head fall onto the table.

"Well, Shortman, I hate to break it to you, but what you've got sounds a lot like lovesickness to me!"

"Grandpa!" Arnold moaned.

"What? There's nothing wrong with a little healthy infatuation. Why, at your age, it's perfectly normal."

"What's normal?" Gertie had walked in the room. Arnold grunted into the table cloth.

"Young Arnold's got himself a big loopy crush on a girl, Pookie!" Phil's glee was evident in his voice.

"A young lady, huh?" Gertie's hand was on his shoulder. She gave him a congratulatory squeeze.

Arnold couldn't take it anymore. He had to get out of the boarding house.


	3. Chapter 3

_The flashbulbs blink_

 _The cameras wink_

 _But they know nothing_

 _Of what's beneath_

The Coco Hut was empty and strangely quiet, but Arnold closed the door behind him and walked in anyway. He flipped the light switch and stood still for a moment, marveling at how the silence only amplified the swirling notes in his head. He tucked the key Mr. Simmons had entrusted him into his back pocket.

While Simmons helped build this tiny community and stuck with it as long as he could, it had morphed organically over the years from a grade school project into an underground teenage hangout. Like a mother bird kicking its children out of the nest, he delved back into teaching his next batch of students and handed the baton off to Arnold. "I know you'll take care of the place, Arnold. Never stop being creative!"

Taking a deep breath, Arnold began to wind his way through the tables and chairs towards the upright piano wedged into the corner next to the stage. On another day he might have gone up to the boarding house roof and tried the grand there. But his grandparents, kind as they were, had done nothing to ease his feelings. He couldn't stay for fear he'd incriminate himself further—he shuddered to think what Oskar or Ernie might say. At least he was alone here. He discarded his jacket, tossing it over the arm of one of the eclectic chairs Sheena had upcycled from the curb. He took a deep breath and carefully pulled out the scratched and battered bench.

Fingers grazed the smooth keys and then he was immersed in sound. Thoughts and ideas that had swirled in his mind for days on end were finally able to emerge into being. Twenty minutes into a particularly wrenching segment that he couldn't quite get right, he started at a slight scraping noise coming from the ceiling. _Were there rats in here?_ He sat still, listening carefully.

Before he could decide whether to continue playing or start looking for the source of the noise, a huge rending crash shook the room and a blond blur tumbled down onto one of the empty tables. When it landed, a string of curse words issued forth that would have been sufficient to make a younger Arnold blush.

He knew that voice. "Helga?!"

"That's my name," he heard her grunt. She kicked one of the toppled chairs off of herself and struggled to her feet.

He sat, limbs frozen, remembering a time when Helga had burst out of the wall of his bedroom. He choked out, "Are you okay? W-what are you doing?"

"What's it look like I'm doing?" She rolled her eyes at his gaping mouth as she combed chunks of ceiling tile out of her hair. "I'm breaking in, that's what."

"You could've knocked." He pointed dumbly at the door.

She snorted. "Sorry I didn't _remember my manners_."

Arnold shook his head. Helga had literally crashed into his day. The music was louder than ever and there was no way to make a clean exit.

"But _why_ are you here?"

"I could ask _you_ the same question." She blew her bangs off her face and stood hesitantly.

He squinted at her. "How long were you in the ceiling?"

"What's it to you?"

So it was a stalemate kind of a day. A cacophony of bass assaulted his chest as he turned back to the piano. He shrugged. "Whatever."

"So… I couldn't help overhearing…"

Arnold tensed as his fingers touched the keys. "Um… yeah. It's something I wanted to try out. You know… just noodling."

"Isn't that some kind of jazz term?" Helga patted the dust off her shoulders and hopped lightly onto the edge of the stage.

Shocked, Arnold nodded. He'd never seen Helga play an instrument, let alone indicate any particular interest in jazz, although she frequented (and at times, participated in) many dances and performances where jazz happened to be. Her collaborations with Phoebe didn't really count—Phoebe was merely the background support, and even that was occasional. He suspected Helga allowed it to make Phoebe happy.

Either way, despite her prowess in the literary sphere, Helga's interest in the jazz world seemed no more or less powerful than their classmates'. Arnold considered himself an oddity anyway; even Gerald could only humor him so much when he came over to study. "Don't you wanna listen to the radio?" he'd say as Arnold delicately held up a classic vinyl record. What _did_ Helga listen to? He studied her from his vantage point—she was sprawled back on the stage, one leg bouncing lazily over the other.

"But obviously that wasn't just jazz." She interrupted his thoughts with another nudge of conversation.

He shook off her leading statement and tried again, "Why'd you come here Helga?"

"Oh, I don't know… I guess for the same reason. To try something out." Her head lolled towards him and she exhaled haughtily. " _Alone_."

Arnold laughed and touched the lowest note. It filled the room with an ominous resonance. "First come, first serve."

"Well, Shortman, I've been breaking in here much longer than you have. _I've_ got dibs." Her foot paused, a potentially dangerous sign.

"You can't make me leave." He smiled calmly and pressed the next lowest note.

Usually at this point the conversation would have escalated into an argument. But Arnold had discovered a pleasantly disarming effect on his companion. It was harder for her to counter a smile with an outright frown these days. Not impossible, and, more often than not, dependent on the person, but definitely harder.

"Oh yeah?" Helga's mouth twitched.

"Yep." He felt the impulse to play a chord and managed a glissando into another.

"Them's fightin' words, Hairboy." Happily, she didn't leap off the stage to proceed beating him up; quite the contrary, she resumed bouncing her leg.

He took this as something like encouragement so he tried something bolder. The melody that had plagued him for most of the year he finally allowed to leak out through his hands, and before he knew it, it took hold of him and carried him further than ever before. He didn't know how long it was before he chanced another glance at Helga, but when he did, he saw she was sitting bolt upright, watching him play. He faltered.

Helga suddenly turned her head to survey the empty room. Arnold looked back down at the keys, trying to keep going, but he lost the thread.

"D-don't stop!" Shocked at this unexpected remark, he blinked. Helga was looking at him again in a disquieting way. "It's nice."

Arnold slowly shook his head once. "I don't know how to get back to it."

"Oh." She nodded just as slowly, like she understood. "I get it."

"What?"

"The muse."

"You mean music?"

"No, Sherlock. The muse. It comes and goes. It just hits you, you know." She balled one hand into a fist and lightly tapped it into her other palm. "Then you've got to get it out."

"So is that why you're here?" Arnold leaned back slightly and crossed his arms. "Are you saying you have to get something out?"

"Okay, you got me." Helga flopped back onto the stage and stared at the gaping hole in the ceiling. Old crumbling insulation poked out around the edges. "I come here to practice, okay?"

"You mean for Slam Jam?" Arnold was surprised.

"Sort of."

"Why?"

"Same reason anybody practices. To get better," she counted on her fingers, "to conquer stage fright, stuff like that."

Arnold let another laugh escape him.

"What's so funny?"

"You, Helga G. Pataki, get stage fright?"

"I'm human, ain't I?" She glared at him, a challenge.

"Well, yeah. But I never would have thought you'd… I mean, you've been standing on stages for years!"

"So?"

Arnold changed tack. "Wanna try out your new stuff?"

Helga jolted. "Now?"

"Yeah, I've gotta see this stage fright thing first hand."

"Arnold… Arnold, Arnold, Arnold." She shook her head. "I can't do that. The creative process is not something you want to tamper with. We _accomplished_ stage performers follow a strict code."

 _Accomplished_. _Sophisticated_. "And what's that?" He smirked, waiting.

"Invent the most ridiculous superstitions possible and adhere to them religiously for all eternity."

"Huh?"

"I do my weekly practice _alone_ and _win_. If I change it up, who knows what could happen?"

"You still win?"

Helga scoffed.

"No one's as good as you."

Her mouth opened and closed. The music still lilted long after it left the piano.

"Anyway…" Arnold checked his battered pocket watch. "It's getting late." He reached up to rub the back of his neck and looked awkwardly at his knees. "I'll let you practice." His foot left its comfortable perch on the worn pedal. He stood to grab his jacket off the flowery chair, and then suddenly thinking of something, rooted around in his back pocket.

The key sailed in an arc and landed in her hand. "What's this for?"

Arnold looked at her like she was crazy. "So you don't crash through the roof again? You can give it back tomorrow. Just lock up before you leave."

"Weren't you listening, Hairboy?" She tossed the key back. "Superstition. Don't break the habit."

"Whatever you say." Arnold slyly looked over his shoulder at her as he opened the door, one arm halfway into a sleeve of his jacket. "But you're forgetting something."

"Huh?"

"It's too late. We already broke it." He smiled again as the realization dawned on her face and then slipped out.

She was right though—playing the piano had given him a slight therapeutic release. It was a start. He pulled the door shut gently, locked her in, and hummed his way towards home.


	4. Chapter 4

_You don't trust me_

 _To do it on my own_

 _Blind in dual spotlights_

 _Stranger in my home_

Helga ran to the door and peered through the small, grimy window panes. When Arnold was finally out of sight she made her way back to the empty stage.

"Great, just great. Of course, of all the people, the worst person in the world who could possibly show up..." Helga trailed off, stomping on the creaky floorboards. "This was supposed to be the perfect place. And now _Arnold_ could magically appear at any moment!"

Helga rubbed her temples. She ignored the hole in the ceiling. That could be fixed later.

She'd tunneled her way into the building through the vent system per habit, but she hadn't counted on the ghostly piano music. Anxious to get out of the dark (and away from the murky expanse of cobwebs), she paused to consider her options. Crossing to the middle of the ceiling seemed dangerous, but it was necessary to decide whether to resume her normal route or to turn around and make a quick getaway. Of course, she didn't believe in ghosts, having pretended to be one once, but potentially running into someone as crazy as _Curly_ pretending to be one bothered her slightly.

She'd lain in the cramped wedge of space for several minutes, face pressed to the grate, gaze fixed in awe on the blond boy below. It was generally assumed that his grandmother had taught him how to play—and they did keep a fantastic grand piano on the roof of the boarding house—but she didn't know he'd kept it up all these years, nor that he'd gotten so good. Resigned, she made to turn back and give him his space, intent on finding another deserted spot to do her work, no matter how long it took, but the weak tiles beneath her unfortunately thought otherwise.

It was admirable that Arnold was able to simply go along with whatever excuses Helga fed him, whether he believed them or not. Most people would get frustrated or angry and give up, but Arnold was different. She'd snapped Phoebe's patience few times, but for the strength of their friendship it never did much harm. Although Arnold's patience stretched pretty far, one day she was bound to destroy it, but for now she was grateful he sensed her need to be alone.

Even so, she would check the front door next time. Helga inhaled deeply and reveled in the room's silence. She looked at her watch and counted: _one, two, three, four, five_. When Brainy didn't emerge after the customary allotted time, she relaxed and closed her eyes.

A raging flood of pent up emotion that had pooled in her heart all week surged up from her chest. All the thoughts and ideas she'd never let her classmates, let alone her beloved, ever discover poured from her mouth and filled the room. The majority of it never even written down, the vast volume of these words would be heard only once and by her ears alone as it reverberated like angry bees off the battered walls. This was the poetry of her soul.

In this way, she divested herself of the muse's hoard, stashed and rolled up and crammed into the spot between her left and right ventricles, to make room for the safe ideas that could be performed before an audience.

Once, in a feat of craziness or stupidity, she'd bolstered her bravado enough to speak a verse or two about this very concept during Slam night, conjuring an image of a topsy-turvy snake shedding its inner layers. That performance ended abruptly with her own frantic hand clapped over her mouth, which the morons in the crowd (fortunately) mistook for some sort of artistic embellishment, and so she never tried it again. Anyone who'd experienced the Helga outpour—Bliss, Phoebe, Lila, even Arnold himself—could corroborate that once she got traction, Helga was an unstoppable force.

There was no telling what would happen Saturday nights without this crucial step. Without it, everyone would know everything, or at least know enough to easily guess her deepest, darkest secret, and that wasn't a risk she was willing to take. While she usually burned herself out during one of these passionate surges of emotion, it was better to be safe than an easy target.

When Helga was satisfied with her work, she turned off the lights, hopped onto the kitchen counter, hoisted herself on top of the fridge, and scrambled back into the ceiling.


	5. Chapter 5

The weekend sailed by like a hot air balloon—slowly at first and then, before it even registered in their minds, suddenly far away, barely brushing the horizon. The gang spent its usual rowdy and boisterous Saturday evening at the Coco Hut, enjoying the hours not devoted to homework and content to procrastinate until the last minute on Sunday, the afternoon of which was typically spent in the dark confines of the movie theater—as students, they got half-off tickets for matinees.

The next Monday afternoon at Gerald Field, Arnold found it really hard not to stare at Helga exclusively. Now that he'd seen this new sliver of her complex web of a life, he struggled to keep it out of his mind and focus on being shortstop. She'd performed fantastically (again) on Saturday, but she professionally avoided speaking openly to him or their peers about their accidental rendezvous the day prior, and she surely didn't share any secret glance with him to acknowledge that it had even happened.

Similarly, she didn't notice him staring at her now (or she was still doing a good job pretending not to)—he didn't mind as long as she didn't catch his eye and turn it into an opportunity to embarrass him. Keeping quiet about that sort of thing wasn't the norm for her, contrary to her aloof behavior Saturday. Last week she'd belted out a "Put your eyes back in your head and pay attention to the game, Arnoldo" along with a loud laugh and triumphant bout of heckling. Harold's subsequent laughter was even worse as it triggered a hefty chorus of "OOooooOOoos."

The only reason he could fathom for this atypical behavior was that Helga really didn't want anyone to know about her stage fright compensation strategy, weird as it seemed to him—most of their classmates had experienced similar challenges in school plays or talent shows, and they managed not to make fun of each other for it.

Perhaps Helga, for all the brave face she displayed to the world, couldn't handle the mere possibility that her peers would ascribe a weakness to her, no matter how trivial, especially since it would tarnish her reputation in a field not even her sister Olga could touch. Everyone knew the legend of Olga's instrumental performances, her continued mentorship of the neighborhood youth when she was in town, even her reputation for winning spelling and debate competitions—all of the high school trophies and plaques boasted a prominent O. PATAKI etched in brassy metal—but there was never a mention of Olga winning anything in original composition. And while Helga didn't seem to give a single damn about academic trophies, Arnold had witnessed her covetously eyeing their sportive counterparts in every race and physical contest imaginable. She chose to compete in the things that she knew she had a fighting chance in, and once she'd latched onto the spoken word, she seized power and declared it her domain.

Arnold lunged to scoop up a ground ball and threw it towards third. Helga must have decided that he wouldn't tell anyone. Why she trusted him so much, he didn't know. Maybe she meant it that time at the end of freshman year when she said he was the most honest guy she'd ever met, even if those words dripped with sarcasm.

That assessment was an exaggeration for sure—despite public appearances, Arnold had a deviant streak that not many knew about. He tried to keep it under control, but sometimes it got him into trouble. He thought it was interesting, him with his wholesome appearance and concealed flaws, and Helga with her misunderstood bravado and tender heart underneath. Their respective best friends knew of these natures—he assumed Phoebe wouldn't be Helga's best friend if she didn't see it too.

As he reflected on the mysteries of polar opposites and magnetism, he heard Gerald cough suspiciously loudly behind him somewhere in center field. _Great…_ He'd been staring stupidly again at the way Helga was dancing on and off second base, ready to steal. Arnold shook his head and readied himself for the next play. He couldn't help glancing once more. Helga spat not so daintily in the dirt. It did nothing to quiet the flood of string instruments.


	6. Chapter 6

Stinky hollered from the tiny galley kitchen, "What do y'all want on the pizza?"

"Pepperoni!"

"Mushrooms!"

"Don't forget the chocolate brownies!" yelled a particularly enthusiastic voice.

"They don't have brownies, C.B.! Hey, fellas, can we get some garlic balls?" Stinky sounded hopeful.

"Hold on, let me count this change… Yeah, we've got enough!"

"Okiedokie! Add on one order of garlic balls!" The phone clicked into its receiver.

Sid shook his head and whispered to Nadine and Rhonda that he still thought Stinky was a vampire, no matter how hard he tried to hide it. Nadine snorted and Rhonda rolled her eyes in disgust. Katrinka giggled and joked that Gloria should be the judge of that. Gloria blushed and mumbled something inaudible.

Sid shrugged and pushed himself up out of his seat, careful not to trip over the random legs jutting from various directions. He scrambled up onto the stage, grabbed the mic, and flipped on the tiny switch. He looked out over the crowd and took a deep breath.

"Are you ready for Slam—Jam—SEVENTEEN?!"

The crowd thundered. Sid smiled at the clever name that was coined last year—everyone had heard of the wrestling fest, but it was their own homely group who put this spin on it. In reality, it had been Harold's and Helga's joint idea, but Sid proudly credited himself with the implementation and growing hype around it.

The core of the neighborhood gang remained strong, but no two nights at the Coco Hut were ever the same. Many members of the group pulled in various friends from other classes—Rhonda and Patti started a knitting subculture at one point, and Timberly and her friends sometimes dropped by, sitting in their own corner and talking mostly amongst themselves. Despite this unplanned sprawl, Sid liked to think of himself as head publicist—he had even made flyers once.

Eugene's whistle rang out above the shouting. "Then without further ado," Sid continued benevolently to his subjects, "in _this corner_ , Mr. Suaveness himself, the Keeper of the Tales, the handsome, the debonair—"

"Get to the point, Sid!"

"GERALD JOHANSSEN!" Feet stomped and the floor shook. Arnold, sitting at one of the tables closest to the stage, glanced covertly towards the ruptured ceiling and noticed a few lingering fragments rain down. They really did need to fix that hole…

"And in _this corner_ , the record-holder, the infamous _It_ Girl, the blond bombshell herself—" somebody catcalled and Sid wiggled his eyebrows, "—HELGA G. PATAKI!"

Harold whooped and pumped a fist in the air. "Get 'im, Madame Fortress Mommy!"

Usually Arnold backed Gerald on harmonica or bongos. Today they were taking a break—Eugene couldn't play the flute "on account of his poor busted up hand," Stinky was so kind to point out in his matter-of-fact way. From the audience, the view was different. When Arnold was on stage, he could only see the back of Gerald's head or occasionally the side of his face—this time he not only could see Gerald's serious concentration but also Helga's cool demeanor as she lurked in the shadows near the back. Did she always do this? How had he not noticed before? She didn't look nervous at all. He guessed her practicing technique was working as planned.

Phoebe was sitting this one out as well. She had left her bass at home and opted to bring her more compact cello for the musical portion of the evening. The musicians of the group liked to call it that anyway. The non-musically-inclined tended to call it "poker time" and would deal each performer in to the game in turn when they'd finished a piece.

Most of these performances were technically practices for marching band or the school symphony orchestra, but there were a few prodigious efforts sprinkled into the mix. When Stinky could be persuaded away from his card table, and only if Phoebe and Park deigned to contribute some twang with their own strings, he could light up the room with his banjo.

Arnold peeked at Phoebe's face to see her glowing in admiration as Gerald cleared his throat. Well, there was no debate over who _she_ was rooting for.… Arnold blinked and realized he had been secretly doing just the same thing all along. He felt guilty—Gerald was his best friend. Or had he thought he'd been rooting for the underdog? He did typically root for the underdog. He was flummoxed. Gerald was good, but Helga had proved time and again that she was _not_ the underdog in this case…

Gerald, meanwhile, had closed his eyes and shouted something about the innocent cruelty of children. The room was engulfed in an expectant hush. Arnold tried to wrench his mind back to Gerald's poem. Harold said loudly behind his hand to Patti, "Man, that's deep!" Patti elbowed him.

When Gerald was finished, he gave such a deep bow that his hair touched the floor. Phoebe was clapping animatedly next to Arnold, and he couldn't help but smile at her enthusiasm. He caught her eye and grinned, and she immediately snapped back to the stage. Helga would have probably used an irritable _shut up_ here, but Phoebe wasn't far behind her. "Be quiet, Arnold."

"I didn't say anything!" He laughed.

"Let's hear it for Gerald!" cried Sid once he had the mic back.

The room clamored loudly as Gerald jumped down from the stage to walk back to his seat. Arnold waggled thumbs with him and stated a sincere, "That was great, Gerald!"

"Yeah, yeah, I know. I'll enjoy it while it lasts, I guess." He turned to his friends around him and blew mock kisses at them. They responded with mock fainting and roaring laughter.

Arnold saw Phoebe shoot Gerald a soft smile that clearly said, "You tried your best," which only confirmed whose side she was on, and then Helga took the mic.

"Hello, ladies and germs!" came her customary salutation. She doled out a dry "Calm down, honey" in response to Eugene's shrill cheer.

The room eventually fell quiet and then Helga took a deep breath.

Three minutes later, Gerald slumped in his chair, defeated, but magnanimously sportsmanlike. He shot a couple pistol-fingers at her as she bowed elaborately and sauntered off the stage. Arnold clapped with the rest of them, trying to blend in, but he had a horrible feeling that he had been caught.

Yes, Helga had rubbed off far too much on Phoebe. It was Phoebe's turn to smirk knowingly at him, arms crossed. Arnold squirmed in his seat. She leaned towards him and whispered underneath the racket their friends were making, "Don't think I didn't see that tiny tear in your eye, Mr. Shortman."

"I don't know what you're talking about, Phoebe."

"I won't tell Helga if you won't tell Gerald."

Arnold stared at her. She wouldn't even let him deny it.

"Fine. Deal."

"Forgetting!"

"What're you two chatty Cathys talking about?" A torso suddenly descended between their faces as Helga reached for the last slice of the open box of pepperoni. Arnold gripped the edge of his chair. He was glad the room was dark.

"Just how magnificent you were, Helga!" Phoebe beamed.

"Yeah, yeah, tell me something I don't know." Helga plopped down into the dilapidated love seat behind them and kicked her feet up onto the table. Arnold had a fabulous view of her left calf. He gulped and chanced a glance over his shoulder. The pizza was halfway to her mouth.

"What?"

He smiled shakily. "Yeah, that was… that was beautiful, Helga."

She stared, wide-eyed, but the moment disappeared as Gerald reached back to give her a fist bump and Patti clapped a large hand on her shoulder en route to the bathroom. Harold tossed her a fresh Yahoo and in his own special way congratulated her on another fine composition of the spoken word, "You said it, Helga!"

"Next up!" Sid bellowed. The crowd hushed as all the attention snapped back to the stage. "Peapod Kid!" Everybody cheered. Stinky clinked his Yahoo across the table with Harold. Harold reached for the next delivery box in the stack. "Aaaaaaaaannnnnd Park!"

Nadine and Rhonda started up a chant: Pea- _pod_ Pea- _pod_ Pea- _pod_. Park shook his head across the stage at his bespectacled friend and rolled his eyes. One of them would have to go up against Helga after this, and neither of them probably had the material to beat her. Again.

But Helga was cheering loudest of all. Arnold could hear her voice catching up the chant around hearty mouthfuls of pizza. Her knee rested slightly against his shoulder, and he pretended with all his might not to notice.

"Shut up, Phoebe," he mumbled carefully.

"Why, Arnold, what a despicably filthy mouth you have," she whispered.

"And… and what a filthy mind you have," he whispered back lamely.

" _Oooh_ , good one." She let out a tinkling giggle. "I'm positively shaking in my boots."

So Helga _had_ been giving her sarcasm lessons. Great. He'd have to wait to ask Phoebe the question he was planning later. It was too dangerous here; he'd have to try in a more Phoebe-oriented place. He resolved to spend an extra day in study hall next week.


	7. Chapter 7

"Arnold, I didn't know you were so studious." Phoebe didn't look up from her book as Arnold pulled out a chair from across the table.

"Well, I'm not really." He leaned an elbow on the table conspiratorially and got down to business. "I kind of wanted to ask a favor."

"From me?" Phoebe glanced up briefly, surprised.

"Um, yeah." He cast his eyes towards the bookshelves.

"Does this, perchance, have anything to do with a certain… lady we share a mutual acquaintance with?" Phoebe spoke slowly, pretending highest interest in the quantum formulas scattered over the page.

"How'd you know?" Arnold gave her a straight-faced look.

"Lucky guess? I'd hate to sound arrogant, but you know I'm pretty smart, right?" She grinned a tiny Phoebe-grin at her joke. He could see why Gerald thought she was cute.

Arnold laughed a tiny laugh and turned a page of the history book he'd randomly pulled out of his bag. "Could you meet me after school at Slausen's? I'd prefer it if we weren't overheard."

"Sure. I'll meet you at 3:30."

* * *

 _Do you see the oak sway with the gale?_

 _It bends and twists and moans but does not break_

 _O Tree, thy branches whisper to the wind_

 _The secret talk of youth and age, youth and age_

The late afternoon sun slid through the diner window and sparkled off the napkin dispenser. Arnold played with his spoon, feeling slightly awkward—he and Phoebe didn't spend too much one on one time together. He was used to Gerald's scrutiny, but Phoebe was on an entirely different level—he had to be careful, but he had to trust her.

"So. What kind of Helga-themed favor is so terrible that you've resorted to going through me?" Phoebe sipped her vanilla milkshake politely.

The brass bell tied to the door rang shrilly and Sheena and Eugene appeared. Arnold flinched and whispered quickly, "Can we not say her name out loud? I don't want…" He leaned to his right and made sure their friends weren't looking their way.

Phoebe's face was inscrutable. "Oh, I see… perhaps you'd like to use a _code word_ instead?"

"Sure, that's a great idea!" Arnold brightened. "What's a good one?"

"Hm… well, I don't know," she pondered, tapping her chin. "How about… milkshake?"

Arnold considered it, remembering a particular April Fools' Day where Helga made him buy two at the very counter Eugene and Sheena were leaning on.

"Perfect."

Arnold traced the patterns on the worn table cloth, completely missing the spasm of pained composure that flitted across Phoebe's face. When he looked up again, she nodded calmly, expectant.

"Okay, so it's a long story…"

"Don't worry. I'm used to long stories." Phoebe shrugged. "It's one of the joys of being friends with… milkshakes."

Arnold looked down at the table again. Phoebe _was_ smart. He relaxed a little and began to tell her about the music and his thoughts, more or less, about the whole predicament, careful to omit the part involving his bizarre run-in with "Milkshake" in the Coco Hut. Phoebe seemed understanding and almost clinical about the whole thing, except for a few strange coughing fits and once almost knocking over her milkshake.

At the end, Arnold sighed. "Please don't tell Gerald."

Phoebe phrased her words carefully, "You mean to tell me that Gerald doesn't already know?"

"Not… exactly. I don't think so." He sat up straighter. "Has he said anything to you?"

"Not exactly," she mirrored his speech.

Arnold frowned in thought.

"Believe me. The milkshake, while a… an intelligent beverage, is a little denser than it likes to let on." Phoebe's eyes sparkled as she took another sip. "There is no danger of her knowing what you want her to know before you're ready to tell her yourself."

The relief slid off his face as soon as it appeared. "That's exactly it, though. I don't know how to tell her."

"Ah, now I see the reason for your favor."

"Well… I do kind of have an idea." He slowly stirred the remainder of his chocolate shake with his straw.

A short while later, Arnold and Phoebe emerged from Slausen's, satisfied with their plan.

"You're sure this will work?"

"Oh, Arnold, I think it's a fantastic idea!"

"Well, if anybody, you would know." He shook her hand, weirdly formally, but with Phoebe it seemed like the thing to do.

"See you at our agreed-upon time!"

"Bye, Phoebe!"


	8. Chapter 8

_Mister Con Man, Mister Con Man_

 _I see your game_

 _Blood outplays water_

 _And yours would look sad_

 _Smeared needlessly on the court_

Gerald stood patiently behind him in the hallway. Arnold closed his locker and turned around.

"What's up?" He'd meant it to sound upbeat and normal, but it fell totally flat.

Gerald crossed his arms and rolled his eyes. "A little _birdie_ told me that a certain fine specimen of a woman has been spotted going to your house in the afternoons. Care to tell me about the project you're working on?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." He tried to look preoccupied by shifting his backpack.

"Hey, Fuzzy Slippers doesn't lie." Gerald started walking down the hall, and Arnold naturally fell into step with him. "You two don't normally hang out together. I mean, sure we go to the Hut, and the movies, and all that, but I don't know, man." Gerald grinned. "You're just not her type."

Arnold knew Gerald was doing his best to appear nonchalant and decidedly not nervous, but he could sense the tiniest hint of—was it jealousy?—about him. Phoebe must have held up her end of the deal—Arnold had a strong feeling that she and Gerald shared a lot more with each other than they let on, but he let Gerald keep it to himself since it seemed important for some reason. He decided to get it over with. "Okay, okay. We're… well, we're working on…"

"Let me guess. Does it have something to do with…" Gerald made a noise in his throat and pointed a thumb into his chest. Directly behind him, Helga was bending over the water fountain.

Arnold's eyes widened as he hastily waved his hands in front of him. Gerald took the hint and continued steering his buddy down the hallway.

"Arnold, chill. I've been your best friend for fourteen _years_. You're an open book."

"But…"

"Yeah, you're crazy. Bold, but crazy."

Arnold stammered.

Gerald held up a hand. "Spare me the details, okay? I've learned all I need to know."

He dropped the flabbergasted Arnold off at the door to his next class. "Don't worry, dude—you've got my blessing. She'll keep you grounded. But _please_ —" he looked over his shoulder for a moment and then lowered his voice, "no more awful double-dates at that French place. Or the _other_ French place. Just no French stuff. Okay?"

Arnold finally found his voice. "Thanks Gerald."

"Don't mention it."

* * *

 _Jump rope rhymes_

 _Rebound so well_

 _Off brick walls_

Arnold had already slunk glumly into his classroom and didn't see Gerald disappear around the corner.

"I told you it wasn't anything."

"Yeah, yeah, but still—"

"Look, I _know_ you care about Phoebe, but—"

"Hey! I was trying to help _you_ out."

"Really? Me." Gerald crossed his arms.

"Doi. Who else?"

"First thing, _I_ don't need help."

"You—you're… but Phoebe—" Helga was pointing in random directions. Before she started hyperventilating, Gerald tiredly held up a hand.

"And second, you've got nothing to worry about."

"Huh?"

"Give it some time." He gave a nonplussed Helga his most reassuring smile and patted her shoulder. "Trust me."

Helga stared blankly, not quite comprehending his meaning.

"And Helga?"

"What?" Eyelids lowering like a portcullis, she gazed at him coldly.

" _Why_ again are you stalking your own best friend?"

"I'm not… I…" She relented at the look Gerald was giving her. "She just won't tell me what they've been up to." Her shoulders sagged.

"Maybe give her the benefit of the doubt. Maybe… I don't know. Maybe they're planning a surprise or something. Isn't your birthday coming up?"

"Thanks a lot for that awful reminder."

Gerald laughed. "I think this time around it'll be a better experience. My buddy's learned his lesson about surprises."

"I appreciate your misplaced sentiment, touching as it is, but if it's a surprise they're planning, it's probably for you."

"Why me?"

"He's _your_ best friend. And I'm not the one with a birthday this month."

"You remembered my birthday?" Gerald batted his eyelashes and drew his clasped hands to his cheek, "Oh how _sweet_."

"Don't flatter yourself. We've only known each other for fourteen _years_. "

"Aha! So you _were_ eavesdropping…"

Helga squinted at him but didn't deny it.

"Doesn't matter. Just don't make me lie to my main man again. He may do some dumb stuff on his own time, but when his B.S. meter is on, I hate tripping it. You know how he gets with his lectures."

Helga soundly agreed. "What a hypocrite…"

"Hah. Yeah, I don't know _what_ you see in him."

"I don't know what you're talking about, Tall Hair."

Gerald chuckled heartily as she stomped off down the hallway. Those two were done for.


	9. Chapter 9

_Face on the wall says_

 _Time to go. Bells sound_

 _And we emerge drowsed_

 _Into the fading daylight_

 _Where the wild truths romp free_

"Come _on_ Pheebs!" Helga crumpled a candy bar wrapper and tossed it over her shoulder. The corner of Phoebe's room was littered with an increasingly growing pile. "You've been hiding where you've been going for weeks. Can't you just tell me what's going on?"

"Trust me, Helga, all will be revealed soon. And don't tell me you don't know where I've been going. I know your ways." Phoebe didn't look up from her desk, but Helga knew she was frowning.

Helga casually turned a page of her magazine. The backpack next to her still had all its textbooks inside, neglected. "Geraldo suspects you guys are planning a surprise birthday party for him. Why won't you let me help?"

Wheedling was not Helga's strong suit. Phoebe was on lockdown. "I thought you hated event planning."

"I've changed my mind." Long arms stretched lazily in the air. "I'm in a helpful mood."

"Sorry, but no." Phoebe cleaned her glasses on her sweater. "And I know that's not what Gerald said."

"Oh really? And how is _that_ possible.…" Helga clapped a head to her forehead. "I get it. You—and Gerald—"

Phoebe's book slipped off her desk, but she wasn't quick enough to catch it. There was a big thud as it crashed to the floor. "It's not what you think!"

Helga leapt to her feet. "Oh, it _is_ what I think! I can't believe you, Phoebe. How long?!"

Phoebe crouched, checking that her book was unhurt. She climbed back into her chair and set it gently back on the desk. "I-I don't know what you're talking about." She hurriedly searched for her page.

"Don't play dumb." Helga crossed her arms and looked with utmost scrutiny at Phoebe, who shrank backwards, pulling her knees up to her chest. "You two are canoodling and you know it!"

"Fine, if it makes you happy, sure!" It was Phoebe's last parry.

"Admit it!"

Phoebe sighed and removed her glasses again to rub her nose. "I admit it. We're dating, okay?"

"First you start disappearing on Friday nights. Well I guess that mystery is solved. Now you're disappearing in the afternoons. Why are you keeping all this from me?" Helga paced, oblivious to the frustration gradually filling Phoebe's face.

"Because—because…."

"Man oh man, have you _kissed_ him?!"

Color rose to Phoebe's cheeks in splotches. "Hey, that's personal!"

"I'm your best friend! Best friends share junk like that with each other!"

"Share! Share?" It was Phoebe's turn to go on the offensive. "Excuse me, Helga, but you've had at least two kisses that I've hardly even heard a whisper from _you_ about—two _well-publicized_ ones anyway—and—" Phoebe growled in frustration at her visibly affronted friend and slammed her book. "I don't know why I bother. And we didn't want to make it awkward, okay?"

The room grew tense. "Oh, 'we' didn't? And why, may I ask, would it be awkward?"

Phoebe folded her hands in her lap, twiddling her thumbs. "Because, well… you know how it is with you and… Ice Cream."

"And how is it, exactly?" This was treacherous territory.

"It's fine. Absolutely fine. Forget I said anything."

The blond girl seemed like she was holding in a torrent of fury. "What are you planning!?"

"Nothing!"

"Tell me!"

"Helga. Just… wait until Saturday. Please?" Phoebe clapped a hand over her mouth.

"Ah. So it's at the Coco Hut…" Her voice was steely.

"Yes, and don't ask me anything else! No more hints. That's final, and I mean it!" Phoebe crossed her arms insistently and turned her head to look out the window.

Helga flung her backpack over her shoulder. Wrappers swirled in the wake of the slamming door.


	10. Chapter 10

Helga arrived at the Hut at her regular time on Saturday, having freshly cleared her soul the day before of incriminating verses and fully prepared for another Slam win. After a few days of awful silence, she had finally approached Phoebe in the cafeteria with a mumbled apology, and the two picked up where they left off, if not a little stiffly. Despite her clean slate, her nerves were shot.

After a convincingly solid performance, Helga still felt extremely jumpy, ready for her friends to suddenly exclaim an embarrassing and completely unwanted "Surprise!" at any moment, but it didn't happen. The pizza was the same, greasy, yet better than no food at all—anything was better than whatever she could scrounge around the house with her parents out of town on their weird marriage bonding retreat.

The Slam competitors tried their hardest to beat her but didn't—no surprise there. Arnold and Phoebe and Harold and all the others congratulated her as they always did—nothing out of the ordinary. Gerald did give her a creepy wink and a thumbs up at one point, but if anything, it made the situation even more cryptic.

In passing, she gave Peapod Kid a consolation high five for his poem about a man morphing into an insect—while it was disturbing, Helga could appreciate the symbolism. Nadine definitely could too—she'd given him an enthusiastic standing ovation as Rhonda slumped in her chair, attempting to hide her face with her hand.

The noise of metal scraping on metal somewhere near the stage startled her enough to swivel her head around. Sheena was busy taking her bass clarinet out of its case and was helping Eugene affix a triangle to a rickety music stand—he could at least play that one-handed. After a while, the low tones mixed dreamlike with the infrequent high pitched dings, and the poker players drew up their chairs around two of the larger tables. Stinky emerged from the kitchen wearing his "card-playin' hat," plopped into a chair, shuffled the deck, and held it out for Patti to cut the cards.

Deep into a competitive round of betting, Helga was about to call Stinky's bluff when the music stopped. Her classmates' voices blared sharply into focus and then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw Phoebe and Arnold slowly make their way to the stage. Sheena and Eugene trotted over and pulled up their own chairs to their respective tables. Phoebe was hauling her cello out of its case while Arnold slid a chair helpfully towards her. Duets and trios, even full-blown ensembles weren't unusual—especially with Eugene and Sheena or even Stinky and the Strings (as he affectionately liked to call their collaborations)—but Arnold and Phoebe had never attempted one.

"So _that's_ it…" Helga whispered to herself, completely unimpressed. "Big whoop." Her arms reached out to scoop her winnings towards her—she'd have first dibs on the pile of candy on the adjacent table if her luck continued.

Phoebe's bow began to move. Helga tried her best to concentrate on the game. When she could bear the curiosity no longer, she glanced up to monitor the situation, feigning interest in what Rhonda was saying about her most recent shoe purchase and nodding dumbly in what she hoped were the right places.

Arnold, who had been sitting completely still until this moment, began to play. Helga's breath caught in her throat. She knew this music. It was the same captivating melody she'd heard him play weeks ago in this very room, when it was just him and her sitting together in the echoing space.

Bewildered, Helga placed two chips at random on the table. Phoebe continued to play smoothly, adding dimension to the piece and filling the room with reverberating warmth, but it was Arnold who was leading this performance, and it was Arnold who was looking up from the piano _directly at her_ —Helga felt a sharp elbow in her side and distractedly folded her hand. Gerald caught her eye from across the room and nodded once, a grin spreading across his face.

The piece was hauntingly beautiful, hints of soulful jazz interwoven with a bittersweet waltzing tune—it shouldn't have made sense, but it did. The notes played together, were sad together—her mouth hung slightly open in awe. Arnold had closed his eyes, clearly letting some sort of passion take hold of him and carry him through to the end of the piece.

It didn't take long for Helga to become aware of the entire room enveloped in a tense hush, watching her watching him. Was this actually happening?

When it was over, Phoebe looked up, beaming at Helga. Arnold lifted his hands from the keys and turned to smile shyly at her.

Rhonda was gaping in surprise, the tale of her shopping escapades completely forgotten. Lila and Gloria were nudging each other, sharing some smug secret.

Two playing cards fluttered ghostlike to the floor, and the door to the Coco Hut opened and slammed. Stinky let out a low whistle. Everyone in the room turned sharply to him. "What?"


	11. Chapter 11

**Note:** There are so many themes and flavors out there for our favorite characters in the HA! fandom so I apologize in advance if anything seems similar to anyone else's work. Maybe it speaks to the fact that I have too much free-time, but I have read hundreds if not thousands of fics over the past 13 (already?!) years. Perhaps I'm paranoid, but all this time I've been active in the world, I've noticed that there are little bursts of intense writing and trends that pop up (well, doi). For example, sometimes people latch on to the Helga-is-a-secret-ballerina and then the dancing theme takes its turn to proliferate because we all inspire each other to write cool stuff about it. Or the theme of Arnold's grandparents dying, or the theme of Helga's parents getting a divorce or family therapy, or Arnold-confesses-to-Helga-no-take-backsies-first-and-she-panics, etc., etc. So with all that swirling around, I'm doing my absolute darndest to let a unique and believable story happen, at least consciously. When I write I don't really think about what I've read in the past, but because I do read others' work, I think that I subconsciously imbibe those feelings into the overall universe that I have in my head. So when I go back and critically read my drafts, I am puzzled at ideas that already seem familiar, and then I think, "Oh! This is because I read so-and-so's amazing story about blah and the tone and expressions and the way the characters interact take on a similar pattern. How do I fix it so that it does something _new and interesting and believable_?" [The believable part is because I like to aim for canon.] And then I revise and revise until I can revise no more. Does that make sense? Anyway, just wanted to say that to you guys. Thank you so much for your kind feedback and thoughts! And if I've accidentally borrowed a flavor or theme to put my own spin on it, please believe it is out of sincerest respect and consider it my tribute to your fabulousness. :]

* * *

Her feet sprinted down two, three, four blocks. No idea where to turn next, and unable to go on, she stopped near a grimy alleyway, panting and gripping her knees. Wisps of breath puffed into the air and disappeared again and again.

"Helga, wait!" she heard someone shouting faintly behind her. Footsteps thudded on the pavement, getting closer.

When they stopped, Helga flinched, immobile. "What do you want?"

"Are you okay?"

 _Always the voice of concern_ , she thought bitterly. "Just peachy." Her voice sounded alien, far away.

"Helga…" A tentative hand landed on her shoulder.

"I'm fine. Just getting some air."

"Nobody who's fine runs out of a building for no reason."

This was _not_ the time for him to get uppity with her. "What did you have to go and do that for?"

"Do what?" He sounded slightly amused.

"Back there…" _Did he think this was_ funny?

"Oh, you mean bare my soul to you?" Now this was just blatantly sarcastic. Where did he get the _nerve_?

Helga rose to her full height and turned, incredulous, towards the boy standing behind her.

" _Excuse me_?"

Her tone startled him abruptly into sheepishness. "I… I wrote that. For you. Well… Phoebe helped." He started to smile.

She blinked. _Phoebe helped_. She was transported back to the original Coco Hut days when Phoebe helped her create an absolute farce of a comedy show. Her skin prickled.

He continued hesitantly, "It's what I hear when I… see you. Or think about you. Which is… a lot of the time."

Helga stood in the stark moonlight, eyes wide with disbelief. Remnants of old leaves and city debris rustled in the gutter.

Arnold blundered on, "You said you thought it was nice so I wanted to… finish it."

The brick wall behind him was swimming in and out of focus. She inhaled sharply.

"Did you like it?" The look he was giving her was unsettling.

Helga continued to stare silently at him.

"You… didn't like it?" His face fell.

 _All her work, all her toil, the madness and pain of secrecy—all by herself._ Her hands clenched. And then, in one violent motion, she flung them towards the ground. "It's not _fair_!" she shouted.

"Huh?" Arnold stepped backwards, clearly not prepared for this conversation to unravel so rapidly.

Floundering for words, she stalled for time. "You—you can't just _spring_ that on me like this!"

Arnold's eyebrows shot into his messy hair line. "Really?" He made a desperate attempt at a laugh. "Of all the people to say something like that—"

Anger—or hurt, he wasn't sure—crept into her eyes. "Don't you _dare_ finish that sentence!" Helga took a step towards him and pointed a finger at his nose.

"And why can't I? It's not like _you'd_ ever bring it up again!" Arnold was getting impatient. He lowered his voice, trying to steady the boat. "Somebody needs to say it."

Helga glared at the wall. "Nobody needs to say anything!" The wind howled around the corner of the alley. A cloud brushed by the moon, throwing them in and out of darkness.

"Well, I tried _without_ words, didn't I? Now I see where it got me." Arnold's face was a mask of disappointment.

"Did you think that I would stand and applaud or something? Throw you a bouquet of roses? Run up on stage and—and—" She couldn't even say it now! Arnold couldn't fathom the layers of denial the woman was capable of.

"No! No, I thought… I just thought you'd understand…." He ran a hand through his hair, terribly frustrated.

"Did you think _they_ wouldn't notice?" Helga tossed a hand into the air. "And Phoebe—" She grabbed her hair in her fists and groaned.

"I didn't know how to tell you, Helga! See?" Arnold was pleading, "Just now, you won't even talk to me. All Phoebe did was help me write some music, okay?"

"Oh, I'm sure that's all it was."

Arnold felt like he'd been slapped. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Don't tell me you didn't have fun during your little get-togethers, talking about how _hard_ it is to _see beneath my tough exterior_ and get to the _real_ Helga _deep down_." Her fingers were making ludicrous quotation marks and he was troublingly reminded of Mr. Simmons.

"I didn't—we didn't—"

But Helga was still going, pacing two steps to the left, two to the right— _was this a cross-examination_? "And I bet you thought it'd be a barrel of chuckles to humiliate me in front of—"

"Humiliate you?" Something changed in the air between them. Perhaps he was finally noticing the cold. "Humiliate you…" Arnold could feel his face burning. "I laid it all out there for you, Helga. Don't you think that was hard for me?"

"You said it yourself, you didn't even write the whole thing!" Helga was determinedly not looking at him or else she'd have seen how much she'd hurt him.

Arnold stuttered, obviously crushed.

"Save it," she held a hand up to his face, her eyes closed tightly. "I don't want to hear it."

"But Helga! I don't know what else to do! I don't _get why you're being like this_!"

"There's nothing to get."

He was at a complete loss. "I guess I'll leave you alone then..." His words were tiny and hollow.

There was nothing else to say. He stood there dejectedly, not wanting to go back to the Coco Hut and face the mob of curious onlookers but dying to be anywhere but here, getting his heart stomped into a pulp on the sidewalk. After one of the most painful seconds of his short life, Helga, breathing hard, finally turned and continued to run away into the night.


	12. Chapter 12

Arnold didn't see Helga for the rest of the weekend. The guys at Monday afternoon practice cautiously avoided any mention of the debacle—even Harold managed not to breathe a word. Helga's ominous absence from practice must have frightened them.

When she'd run out of the building that awful evening, Arnold and Phoebe had sat, stupefied, for a full thirty seconds, unsure where they should look. Gerald had been the one to snap him into action with a quiet "Go get her, man." Some good that did… It was torture remembering the shell-shocked looks on his friends' faces, the infinitely long walk of shame to the door, all eyes dying to know what he'd do next.

On the field, Gerald attempted to console him with a kind look, but it was useless. When he got home, Arnold tried to call her house and apologize (he had no idea for _what_ —for expressing his own feelings?) but after the fourth time Mr. Pataki answered the phone (and the fourth time Arnold hung up without saying anything), he gave up.

Phoebe's strained voice wasn't much help either. "Honestly, Arnold, I had no idea it would… backfire in such an alarming way."

"I've probably already told you too much, Phoebe. And she's probably talked to you about it anyway so—" Arnold rolled onto his side on top of the blanket. Still fully dressed, he hadn't left his bed for hours.

"Oh no, she hasn't talked to me. I'm afraid it's pretty serious."

"Well, thanks anyway." Arnold sighed through his nose. "No more double-dates at French restaurants… ever…"

"What?"

"Never mind. Just something Gerald said."

"Oh, okay."

There was the slightest pause.

"How are you two doing anyway?"

"I don't know what you mean, Arnold."

"Yeah you do." Arnold stated meaningfully. He waited one second, two seconds…

"All right… We were planning on extending an invitation to the movies once you two had… Well, it didn't go quite as expected, but we were prepared to wait a little longer anyway. We were just so—excited that you two were finally close to a breakthrough."

Arnold sighed again.

"It'll work out, Arnold. I'm certain of it. The look on Helga's face suggested to me that she was very touched."

"I wish I could believe that, but I think I've finally pissed her off for good, even though I have no idea what I did."

"Once she cools off, she'll apologize. Helga didn't learn conflict-resolution or self-expression from the best role models, but she's undeniably blessed with a conscience."

Arnold laughed grimly. "Well, she probably thinks of it like a curse."

"Very true. She does."

"I'm going to go finish my book report. See you tomorrow, Phoebe."

"Goodnight, Arnold."

Arnold hung up the phone and stared at the patterned floor of his room. The book report wasn't due for a few more days. He decided to stay in bed instead.

* * *

"For cryin' out loud, this is the fifth time tonight— _What do you want_?!"

"I-I'm sorry Mr. Pataki," trembled the voice, "is this a bad time?"

"Oh. It's Phoebe, right? Some jerk kid's been prank-calling the house. Ol- _Hel_ ga! Your friend's on the phone!"

"Not now, Bob."

"Can she call you back? She's holed up in her room—yeesh, what else is new..." Mr. Pataki trailed off.

"Please, Mr. Pataki, it's rather urgent."

"All right. Hold on a second."

Bob pounded on the door. "Get your fanny out here, little lady. Your friend's got an emergency."

The door opened and closed so swiftly that Bob barely saw the cordless disappear through the crack. "Why couldn't we have had _sons_ …" his voice faded as he marched down the hallway.

"What do you want, Phoebe?"

"Hello to you too, Helga." She got straight to the point. "I just got off the phone with Ice Cream."

Helga was silent.

"And I don't care if you don't like that I helped him. I'm not sorry."

Silence.

"He has no idea what he did wrong. Helga, he really cares about you."

Snort.

"Helga, if you don't talk to him, I-I'll spill the beans!"

"You mean, he doesn't already _know_?" Her voice was scathing.

A strangled noise came through the receiver. "Of _course_ he knows—why would he try something so… raw if he didn't think it would win your heart?"

"B-but he didn't tell you about… you didn't talk about… you didn't…"

"No, Helga. Of course I didn't tell him anything. You're my best friend, remember? And I don't think he's told anyone about the _incident_ , not even Gerald."

Helga's voice was emotionless. "You're such a double-agent, Pheebs."

Phoebe was starting to sound dangerously self-congratulatory. "And _you're_ the biggest, asinine, ridiculous hypocrite I've ever _met_!"

"Hey! Who you calling asinine?"

Phoebe huffed. She was probably pacing by now.

"I messed up." Helga sighed.

"Yes, you did." Phoebe paused. "But you can fix it."

"I think I've pissed him off too much this time."

"Well, _I_ think you can still make it up to him."

"What are you talking about, Phoebe?" Helga curled up into a ball amongst the nest of comic books strewn around her on the bed.

"Think, Helga. It'll come to you."

"Fine." In one motion she swept all the debris off her bed onto the floor and settled under the covers. "Goodnight."

* * *

"Hey Phoebe. It's late—don't you normally go to bed at—"

Phoebe's shrill voice cut across him. "Please remind me why we deal with those two blond _nincompoops_."

"Because, babe, without them it'd be a pretty boring life."

"I guess you're right. Gerald?"

"Mm?"

"I'm so glad that you're cool."

"Me too. Hey, I bet you a date at Slausen's they're holding hands and making eyes at each other in the hall by next week."

"Don't be silly. They already make eyes at each other."

"I mean _simultaneously_."

"Can we make it cash instead? I'm absolutely sick of frozen dairy products."

"I'm not even gonna ask."

"That's why I love you."

"Love you too. Get some sleep."

* * *

A knock sounded at his door. Arnold sighed, "Come in."

"You okay Arnold?"

"Yeah. Actually, no."

"You played that fancy musical number you were working on for the Pataki girl, eh?"

"Mmhm."

"Up on a stage in front of all your little classmates? With that tiny girl who's her only friend?"

"Yeah." Arnold was absolutely morose.

"And it backfired? Kablooey, _POW_ -right-in-your-face, a hot mess?"

"Yep." Arnold pulled the fraying sheet up over his head.

"Well, Shortman, you've still got a lot to learn about women."

"I've learned enough, Grandpa."

"You'd think that, but no. You'll keep learning whether you want to or not, but you won't ever learn it all. It's one of those fantastically paradoxical mysteries of life."

"Great."

"Want some milk and cookies? I saved you an _oatmeal-raisin_."

"That's okay."

"Suit yourself." Phil bit into a cookie and chewed thoughtfully. "Give her some time, Shortman. It might take her a few days to process all of it through her wacked-out noodle."

Arnold emerged, laughing despite himself. "Does that make me crazy—for trying even if I know _she's_ crazy?"

"Sure it does! But it's better to be crazy than bored, right?"

"I guess you're right. Thanks, Grandpa."

"Goodnight, Arnold."


	13. Chapter 13

Tuesday dawned bleak and gray. It had snowed in the night, but the flakes melted as soon as they hit the pavement. It would be a little longer before Arnold and his grandparents could make their annual ice rink outside the boarding house.

He sat idly in math class, forlornly imagining what it would have been like to hold Helga's hand, skating alongside her. She sat rigidly in her chair in front of him, scribbling furiously, and it took all his willpower to pretend he wasn't aching inside.

On Wednesday, Arnold decided to walk to school to avoid all the awful stares on the bus. He couldn't endure a third round of Rhonda's voice bleating on replay over everyone's heads: "And she just _ran out the door_! Can you _believe_ how rude… after all that poor Arnold and Phoebe must have gone through… I mean, really, so what if you're crazy, Arnold—it was so obvious she broke your heart—the least she could do is—" Needless to say, Helga hadn't been on the bus or Rhonda wouldn't have survived this far.

Arnold soon found out how Helga had been getting to school. Helga was walking briskly on the sidewalk up ahead of him. It was incredibly cold, but she wasn't wearing a hat or gloves. He watched her hair get caught up in the biting wind and sadly heard the music again. It still wouldn't leave him, no matter how hurt he was.

Then, for reasons unknown to him, Arnold steeled himself. He decided to face this day like an ordinary challenge and jogged until he could call out to her.

She stopped, shoulders tensed and frozen in a crazy shrug. Maybe she was going to run away again. What an odd spectacle that would be, her careening wildly to school and him following her in a silly tortoise-and-hare race to the steps.

It was very quiet—and almost like it was ground out through a clenched jaw—but he could still hear it. "Sorry."

Just as quietly, and surprising himself, he felt his mouth return her words.

She turned slightly towards him. " _You've_ got nothing to be sorry for."

They surveyed each other for a moment across the ten-foot gulf between them.

Arnold shrugged. "I scared you." He took a step forward.

Helga thrust her bluish hands into the deep pockets of her jacket. "I'm not scared of anything."

"Fine, I caught you off guard." He took another step.

"Maybe." Her eyes caught a far-off gleam. "Remember that stupid egg project when I was trying to be nice and you were an idiot?"

"Uh huh…" Where this was coming from, he wasn't sure.

"Can we consider it even now?"

He mulled it over, imagining how imbalanced this scale was. He'd table that calculation for later. "Considered."

"But you were… right. It's not something I haven't done to you…. and I shouldn't have treated you like that." When she said these words, it was almost like she was replying in monotone to a direction from a teacher— _What do we say when we do something mean?_

"Yeah… probably not." Arnold was trying very hard not to laugh. He was thinking of a younger version of Helga dragging a toe through the grass. Or the dirt. Or the sand. Or—

"Watch it."

"Don't start another fight with me Helga." Another step. "I can only take one per week."

"Har." Helga plowed ahead despite his attempts at lightheartedness. "I don't know why I said what I did about you and Phoebe. I know you both… It must have been really hard t-to…" she trailed off.

"I understand. Don't worry about it." He reached her square of sidewalk.

"Wait a sec, let me finish." She took a deep breath and let it out through her nose slowly. "I-I thought it was beautiful as a… as a fully-realized piece. I can't imagine what it took for you to write it."

His mouth went dry. "It was… a challenge, yes."

"You have a good muse Arnold."

"Of course I do." Arnold placed a hand at her elbow.

Helga's face slowly turned colors as his hint sunk in.

"Can I keep walking with you to school?"

Her feet turned to point her down the sidewalk and began to carry her onward. "Whatever."

"No 'whatever floats your boat?'" Arnold fell into step beside her. "Not even a 'no skin off my nose' or 'don't get too comfy'—"

"Arnold?" Her eyes were fixed straight ahead, brow furrowed in determination. She must not have heard what he said or she was very preoccupied.

"Yes?"

"I'd like it… if you could meet me this Friday night. At the Hut. At seven."

"Sure." He waited a moment, but an explanation didn't come. He prompted as gently as he could, "What for?"

"I'll explain it to you then. Just promise you won't tell or bring anyone else."

"Why?" Now he was preoccupied.

"I told you, I'll explain it to you then."

"Does this mean we're okay?"

"Yeah. We're okay."

He nodded, content. "Okay."


	14. Chapter 14

The remainder of the school day progressed in a haze. Arnold couldn't think straight, wondering what secret Helga wanted to share with him on Friday.

That evening, Gerald came over to the boarding house to play checkers. When they started high school, Gerald had mysteriously made a request to move their weekly games from Friday to Wednesday nights. It didn't take long for Arnold to decipher that Gerald probably had other plans he would rather commit to those evenings. It was okay—it was bound to happen sooner or later. He guessed Gerald didn't want his best friend to feel like a third wheel, what with Arnold's lame and futile attempts at relationships in the past.

Even though he carefully avoided bringing Helga up in conversation, Arnold could tell by the third devastating loss that Gerald was dying to know the reason behind his and Helga's abrupt shift from strict avoidance to extreme civility towards each other at school. He didn't dare tell Gerald for fear he'd tell Phoebe and thus inform Helga that he'd told someone. It was better to avoid another potential fiasco.

Instead, he offered his own vague "ideas" to the pile so that they could speculate like with any other mystery they'd worked on together. Gerald wasn't buying it, but Arnold was grateful he didn't push the issue. When it was late enough for both of them to alternate yawning and stretching, Gerald left him with a consolatory word and an encouragement to "just keep your head on straight, buddy."

Thursday, Arnold watched Helga from his locker until Gerald elbowed him and told him to close his mouth. "Head. On. Straight. Man."

Friday morning, he woke absolutely sick with a mixture of dread and anticipation. Grandma had even stopped him at the door to pat him on the shoulder and wish him a fruitful day in the coal mines.

The guys at his lunch table were chatting about what they were going to do over winter break. Most were relieved that this was their last day of classes and were desperate to get away from cafeteria food. Harold illustrated his disdain for his peers' hatred for it by graciously letting them give him their leftovers.

Tomorrow, by majority vote, the Coco Hut would close for the holidays. Many of the neighborhood families happened to go out of town or forced their kids to hang around the house and endure family time—Rhonda, who actually adored family time, talked endlessly about her upcoming ski trip.

Arnold hardly ever went anywhere during breaks, usually spending them schlepping around the boarding house. If he could get away from his regular chores, he'd planned on taking care of the hole in the Coco Hut's ceiling—why he felt responsible for its repair was beyond him, but it seemed like the right thing to do.

As he sat sullenly stirring his pudding, he decided it was probably a good thing that the Hut would be closed. He didn't know how his friends would handle the awkward emotional mess surrounding him and Helga. They were already doing a pretty devastating job. Maybe there would be enough time before the new year reopening for his peers to forget most of the uncomfortable details.

Sid waved a hand in front of his face at least three times before Arnold realized he and Stinky were staring at him worriedly. "Hey Arnold, Earth to Arnold—dude, are you okay?"

"Sorry guys, I guess I'm not feeling so well."

Sid lurched backwards. "Hey! Don't breathe on me then! I don't wanna catch it!"

Stinky whispered dramatically to Sid that it was probably a simple case of heart-sickness and therefore not catching.

"I don't care, I'd rather not take any chances." Sid whipped off his hat to cover his nose and mouth.

Arnold rolled his eyes and stood up to carry his tray towards the conveyor belt. He looked furtively towards another table across the buzzing room and was struck with Helga's blue eyes staring intently at him. But then again, she was probably just looking off into the distance as she chatted with Phoebe and Patti about whatever it was girls talked about. He could hear giggling—the mirthful sound struck his heart like a gong. He shook his head, mumbling, "Women…"

After school, Arnold went straight to the boarding house and proceeded directly to his room, fully intending to do his calculus assignment. Despite these grand intentions, he ended up pacing the floor for several hours. When it was finally 6:30, he bundled up the best he could, took a deep breath, and climbed up to his skylight. He lifted the latch and stepped out into the frigid night air. The moon was out again. He dropped down the last rung of the fire-escape and set off.

The tiny windows in the Coco Hut door were glowing softly—she was already there. He pulled out his key, but it wasn't locked.

There she was on the stage, still as a statue and almost as pale.

"You're late."


	15. Chapter 15

"It's 6:56."

There they stood, him at the door and her on the stage. She began to rub her arm up and down, up and down. He watched the familiar motion in fascination.

"Oh, heh. Guess my watch is fast." The fact that she didn't poke fun at his archaic pocket watch should have been a bad sign, but she seemed agitated so he overlooked it.

"So…" Arnold started, unsure of what to do next.

"So. Um… have a seat." Polite phrases from Helga G. Pataki sounded so _weird_.

He shuffled tentatively forward, glancing at the array of shabby choices in front of him. "Where exactly—"

"Anywhere, don't care." That was better. He relaxed at her impatience.

"Okay." He found an armchair halfway between the stage and door and lowered himself into it, overly conscious of how best to arrange his limbs.

"Now, I've asked you here today," Helga was shaking slightly now, breathing hard, "to s-share something with you."

Arnold folded his hands in what he hoped was a well-mannered gesture and waited.

"It's what I do Friday nights…" These words seemed to bolster her, and Helga frowned down at him proudly. She looked _powerful_.

He interrupted carefully, "Are you sure you don't mind messing up the superstition?"

"Don't be stupid." She snorted. "You said it yourself—we already messed it up."

"Can't argue there."

"Well… are you ready?"

"I don't think anything you do or say will kill me, Helga." Arnold felt oddly serene in the strangeness of it all. But he meant what he said—although she was a basket of bombshells, she'd never done any permanent damage, at least not yet.

She let out a breath in a long, low, hiss. "Don't say I didn't warn you. Okay… here we go."

Then she bowed her head and was still for several seconds. Air sharply filled her lungs and then her pent up words finally had a second pair of ears to witness them.

When she looked up a short time later, it was to behold her beloved Arnold, sitting stunned in his seat and grinning from ear to ear.

The sight of him made something catch in her chest, but she managed to croak out, "And if you ever tell anybody else, you're dead."

Arnold shook his head, wondering who on earth he would tell, and said admiringly, "I've always liked poetry, you know."

"I should have known… all you creative types are the same."

His elbow drifted to the armrest and he dropped his cheek into his palm. "You're one to talk."

"Touché. You're getting better at this, Hair-boy."

"What, conversing with you?"

"No…" she shook her head and put a hand on her hip. "Deep-sea spear-fishing."

He ignored her quip. "Well, I guess we finally found the right mediums… or is it media?"

"Simmons would be so proud. Look at us, being our unique special selves."

"Can you please bring comedienne-Helga out of retirement? I think I like her just as much."

She hesitated the slightest amount, almost like she was actually thinking about it. "Maybe."

"So… do I get to listen to you next time too?"

"I-I guess. Only if you want to."

"Yeah. That'd be nice. And let me unlock the door first. Or at least make a copy of the key for you."

He stood slowly. Emotionally spent, she apprehensively watched him cross the room.

"Do we have a deal?" He reached out a hand.

She considered his proffering for an instant, then reached her own towards him. Instead, she gasped as Arnold pulled her into him and enveloped her in a quiet hug.

After a moment, Helga whispered, "That poem wasn't about you."

"Sure, Helga." His voice felt nice, absorbed that way into her shoulder.

"I'm serious. It was about Harold." Her shaky hand wandered its way to his neck.

"Really. I wasn't aware Harold was blond. Or short." His fingers meandered their way into her hair. It felt better than he imagined it would—not soft or silky, but real, with edges.

"Shows how much you know."

"Careful, Patti will kick your ass." He smirked at her collar bone at this inside joke.

Helga gasped in mock horror. The movement felt wonderful. "I didn't know you knew that word. Do you talk to your grandmother with that mouth?"

"Grandma? She curses like a sailor. While she's pretending to be a sailor, at least."

"Hm. Well I guess I _don't_ know everything about you after all."

"Your poetry hints otherwise."

They swayed a little, and Helga felt her legs bump up against the coolness of the stage paneling.

"Wanna walk me home?"

"Hey, that's my line." As he shook his head, the fabric on her shoulder crinkled.

Her voice was warm in his ear. "I wear the pants."

Arnold snapped his head up and looked at her hard. "Helga, for the last time, it's a _shir_ —"


	16. Chapter 16

The next week, Helga lay on the Coco Hut stage, finishing up the last bite of some sort of granola bar and perusing a book. A purple pen rested on her stomach, rising and falling evenly with her breath.

The door opened and shut. She exhaled a distracted noise in acknowledgement. True to her form, Helga hadn't waited for him to unlock the door.

 _Figures_. "You know, we should really find a way to fix that hole." He still hadn't gotten around to it during their time off from school. Whenever he wasn't stuck doing work around the boarding house, he'd had… other things to distract him.

At one point, Phil had caught him whistling with free abandon while wrapping one of the pipes. It didn't take long for him to coax out an embarrassed confession from his grandson that the situation with Helga had improved quite significantly. "What did I tell you, Hot Lips?" he'd cackled as he headed back up the stairs.

"You don't think it adds to the ambiance? I think it goes great with the furniture." Helga blindly pointed at a random chair behind her. It happened to be a newer find Sheena hadn't reupholstered yet.

Arnold walked his way to the piano and plopped down onto the bench. "So what do you have for me today?"

"Eh, wasn't too inspired this week."

"Really?" He let out a surprised sound halfway between a sigh and chuckle and played several arpeggios in rapid succession, warming up.

"Yeah, muse took a vacation. Sure was boring." Her eyes were fixed on the page above her head. She was chewing on the end of her pen.

"Ha. That so?" The bench ground loudly across the floor.

"Mm."

"Then you want to do something?" Arnold's face was suddenly looming, astonishingly closely, over hers.

After the initial jolt left her body, and after she groped wildly around for the pen that had fallen out of her mouth, Helga made the extreme effort to prop herself up on one elbow and leisurely reply, "What do you have in mind?" Her book closed with a snap.

Arnold had already taken a few shameless steps towards the door. "Oh, I don't know. Want to meet up with Phoebe and Gerald at the movies?" The question came out incredibly smoothly, as if he hadn't spent the entire journey there frantically rehearsing it to himself.

"Are they seeing that really stupid romantic comedy that just came out?"

"Probably."

"Hm. I'd rather claw my own eyes out."

"Why? I thought you _were_ a romantic. You were a very convincing Juliet…"

She gave him a cold look, but he had her stuck.

He picked up her jacket from the table it was draped haphazardly over. "We can compromise and make them see that thrasher flick next time." Arnold felt a tiny thrill as he said the words _next time_.

"What, no food?" Drawn hypnotically towards him, she slid off the stage.

"Well, apparently some restaurants are already on the veto list…. We'll have to ask them."

"Huh?" Mesmerized, she stood there while he slipped her jacket around her shoulders.

"I'll explain later… maybe after the movie." He paused, considering something. "When we're alone."

They were walking to the door. Helga shot a weird look at him as she zipped up her jacket, which took him a second or two to process. "I-I mean, when they're not around. No, I mean when Gerald can't hear us—no! I mean—just never mind." He opened the door and held it for her, desperately willing himself not to slap a hand to his face. He missed Helga's insane expression of elation as he hurriedly ducked back inside to turn off the lights.

When they were halfway down the block, and after a stretch of slightly awkward silence, Arnold reached over and good-naturedly pulled Helga's book from the space between her arm and ribcage. "So what're you reading?"

"Hey!" Helga made a wild snatch in the air, but Arnold was too quick for her.

"Oh…" he had it opened to the last page. Whatever blush remained on his cheeks from before deepened considerably. He handed the book back gingerly, not quite meeting her eyes.

"Heh… uh… now you see why…"

Arnold strangled out a hasty "Yep."

"We should probably… drop this thing off at my house first."

"Agreed."

Detour made, Helga trotted down her front steps to Arnold who had lingered self-consciously outside. They headed off again towards the theater. When their hands lightly brushed each other, Helga didn't pull violently away. So he boldly laced his fingers through hers.

That's how Phoebe, beaming, and Gerald, grumbling about something, saw them from the boisterous and bundled-up line at the ticket counter, their forms almost silhouetted against the blue glow of the signs.

She was saying sternly as they approached, "It was an AND—not an OR—statement, Gerald. Simple logic."

"Yeah, yeah, just a technicality…" Phoebe held out a hand, and Gerald reluctantly slapped a wad of cash into it. "… It's only because it's the break. You know they've been—hey guys!" Gerald called brightly.

"Hey," waved Arnold.

Whatever Gerald was about to say next was cut off abruptly. "What's this crap I hear about banned restaurants?" Helga barked without preamble.

Arnold put his face in his hands and Gerald doubled over in a fit of hysterics.

"Would you get a load of these idiots? Boys are so weird…" Helga and Phoebe shook their heads at each other as they pushed cash through the slot to the ticket lady. Phoebe turned hastily to jab Gerald hard in the side as they all followed Helga through the double-doors.

After much poking and prodding and borderline interrogation during the previews (and mostly through mouthfuls of popcorn), when she finally learned the source of their laughter, she blustered furiously, "Well then we'll just have to go by _ourselves_ , right Arnold?"

Gerald only guffawed harder until the person behind him kicked his seat.


	17. Chapter 17

**Note:** Thank you all so very, very much for your feedback—it truly means the world to me, and I am infinitely grateful to you guys for taking the time out of your day to let me know your thoughts.

Also, I checked out the Sunset Arms forum link—wow, it's amazing how many fans are still crazy about this 90s masterpiece of a cartoon. Getting psyched for TJM!

Thank you again, and I hope you enjoy this last chapter! :]

* * *

 _Baby steps_

 _We take them when we're new_

 _But also when we're through_

 _Being a baby_

"For my second and final performance this evening, I'd like to share one of my very first masterpieces with all you ladies and germs tonight. Whaddya say?"

The crowd clamored.

"I can't hear you, you losers!" she shouted into the mic.

They were sufficiently goaded and yelled even louder, catcalls and all.

The Coco Hut was back in business. Arnold glanced at the newly repaired ceiling—eventually he'd convinced Helga, Phoebe, and Gerald to help him fix it during the break. Of course, Helga mostly directed comfortably from a chair in the corner, Phoebe mostly chastised Helga for not helping, and Gerald mostly served as a glorified spotter while Arnold tried to balance atop a haphazard tower of furniture.

He wasn't sure if their two best friends were quite convinced that giant mutant rats were the culprits of the ceiling collapse, but the nervous laughter and weird glances between Arnold and Helga may have tipped them off that it was best not to ask.

In any case, it had been fun walking around the hardware store hunting for ceiling tiles that matched the handful of debris he'd collected from the floor. He'd especially enjoyed Helga shouting raucously toward the ceiling for "PB&J" to quit strolling so slowly and keep up—they hadn't got all day. PB&J's fears were certainly true about their relationship being an awkward subject around Helga but, unfortunately for them, it was for an entirely different reason.

"Yeah PB&J," Arnold had called from the next aisle. "You heard the woman."

"We've created a _monster_ …" PB whispered to J.

J vehemently denied any part in such wrongdoing.

It had felt so _right_ hanging out, the four of them, not particularly doing anything interesting but having a good time anyway. With their last semester of high school underway, Arnold felt slightly sad that they hadn't started all this earlier. But then, he supposed, there was a time and place for everything. He had a feeling (or at least a hope) that they had the rest of their lives to keep it up.

"All right, all right. Settle down." Helga waited until the roar died into a rumble. "Excerpts from this particular collection were originally meant to be read _only_ after I was dead and buried, but whatever. I'm feeling generous. This one's for a very 'special' someone out there," she held a hand up to shade her eyes and pretended to look around, "who sets my soul aflame with a certain… _je ne sais quoi_ , if you will."

The anticipation in the room was tangible. A bubble of giggles burst somewhere near Lila's and Sheena's table.

"Ah, screw it. You all get the privilege of guessing who the little twerp is. _Three guesses_ in fact." She wiggled her eyebrows.

Several people in the audience groaned. Harold shouted a very mature, "WoooOOOOOooo! Aaaarrrrr—mfph!" Unfortunately, whatever he was about to say dissolved in a fit of coughing as he attempted the Heimlich on himself. A slow clap echoed childishly somewhere near where Curly was sitting.

Arnold, nestled in his favorite raggedy armchair, and Phoebe, leaning her elbows on the beat-up table, looked at each other and grinned.

"Get on with it already, ya staller!" shouted someone who sounded a lot like Curly.

"Hey!" Helga's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Don't taunt the artist. _I'm_ trying to be professional up here!" She cleared her throat noisily and pulled a post-it note from her back pocket to the onlookers' delight. "It's an epic poem." They all laughed obligingly as she painstakingly unfolded it. "I have minuscule handwriting, for those critics out there who'd like to know." She winked at no one in particular, perhaps in the direction of Curly. "Nah, that's a lie. It's an _acrostic_."

Helga paused again for suspense. And began.

The entire crowd was struck dumb—until Rhonda's voice blurted out a victorious "I _knew it_!" which was immediately reprimanded with plenty of heckling and one badly-thrown garlic ball. Gerald was in his corner of the stage shaking his head, looking and feeling very foolish indeed.

As Helga continued to read (and pantomime) each line in an over-the-top, borderline lewd, and unarguably passionate manner, some gasped. Some laughed with outrageous abandon. Some even were beautifully transported briefly back to the nostalgic days of their childhood. Arnold experienced all three.

"And 'A' is for Arnold."

That was when Gerald came in second place for the twenty-somethingth time. Frankly, he'd lost count. There was no way he could outdo that anyway. Sid, crying with mirth, leapt onto the stage and grabbed Helga's wrist to raise to the sky. His words were swallowed by the noise. Park and Peapod Kid were whooping and clapping.

Helga theatrically bowed and bowed, hopped nimbly off the stage, took a running leap, and fell in a crushing heap onto Arnold's lap. The wolf-whistles were deafening. Arnold didn't care, and when he boldly gripped Helga tightly to him and planted a decidedly not-chaste kiss on her lips, he didn't know that he'd just become a starring half in a new wave of urban legends.

Of course, it would take the next two decades for all of Helga's (and his) innumerable secret deeds during their formative years to come to light and trickle down through various channels, the final gateway being, more often than not, bedtime stories recounted to Gerald's kids, but he didn't know that either.

He bequeathed the key to the Coco Hut to his best friend in an unceremonious and awfully inaccurate throw and let Helga lead him by the hand out the door to wild applause and a standing ovation.


End file.
